Caught
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Despite Watson's objections, pregnant!Holmes insists upon taking a case not long before the baby is due. He should have listened to Watson.


A/N: Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: _Ritchie or ACD verse! Holmes heavily pregnant but insisting on continuing with his case. He gets kidnapped, and after a few days, goes into labour right in front the kidnapper who is enjoying the great Sherlock Holmes in such pain._

_Watson rescues him, and they deliver the baby just before Lestrade and the rest arrive._

_Belly rubs and massages and pregnant!sex before the kidnapping (and before Watson gets all exasperated with Holmes)_

_The more descriptive the better. What to do, I love pregnant!Holmes!_

I was pretty non-specific in terms of what verse this is, so I think you can read it as canon-based or movie-based (I think).

* * *

_Caught_

"You cannot possibly be thinking of taking that case."

"I can and I will." Holmes crossed his arms defiantly atop his swollen stomach.

"The baby is due in two weeks. You shouldn't be doing anything but resting."

"It will require only a few hours' exertion, and that won't be for another few days. In the meantime, you may do with me as you please."

"Anything I please?"

Holmes knelt on the armchair astride Watson's lap, his stomach pressing against Watson, and rested his hands on Watson's shoulders. "Anything," he murmured as he leaned in and kissed him.

Watson's hands settled on Holmes' hips and he kissed Holmes enthusiastically. At length he spoke. "I suppose I could agree to that bargain. What are you intending to do with the case?"

"Very little. I have all of the major points solved already, I need only confirm a few things."

"What will that involve?" Watson asked suspiciously.

"I will impersonate our portly client. I do, after all, have the mass for it at the moment. A few small changes to my hair and face and it should go off rather well."

"I don't like it," Watson said immediately.

"Of course you don't, but it's the most expedient way." Holmes regarded him seriously. "Do you really want to be arguing about the case, or did you have something else in mind?"

"We're still negotiating whether you're even going to take the case. You are certain this will pose no danger to you?"

"I am certain."

"Will you at try to think of another way to make it work without impersonating him? You have a few days, you said it yourself."

"I will try," Holmes said reluctantly.

"Splendid. Now, I think, a bath."

"A bath?" Holmes repeated dubiously.

"A bath," Watson confirmed. With his hands on Holmes' hips, he leaned forward and murmured in Holmes' ear. "The sort where we share the tub and spend very little time washing because we're using the oil for other purposes . . . and then we have to run more water to clean ourselves off . . ."

"Oh, a _bath_," Holmes said with a pleased shiver.

.

And so the first tubful of water went cold and their skin got wrinkly while they devoted themselves to things that were not actually bathing. Watson sat behind Holmes in the tub and, after a good deal of teasing and preparation, pulled Holmes back onto his cock and stroked Holmes' stomach while leisurely thrusting into him.

Holmes greatly enjoyed this except for Watson's refusal to allow him to climax. Even after Watson spent himself and they washed using the second tubful of water, Watson didn't touch him or permit him to touch himself. He was exceedingly frustrated by the time they climbed from the tub.

But then Watson fell to his knees before him, firmly gripped his hips, and swallowed him down. Holmes wailed and had a hard time breathing. It didn't take long for Watson's expert attentions to overwhelm him and he came, gasping and panting as he tried to remain upright.

Somehow he made it to the bedroom-Watson had a good deal to do with that, he was certain-and sank onto the bed. Watson joined him; they were both still naked. They kissed again, languidly and at length, and shifted against one another to feel and stroke and eventually they were both quite aroused again.

It took some shifting to find a good position. They ended up with Watson standing beside the bed, Holmes' legs wrapped around his waist while Watson buried himself deep into Holmes' middle passage and used the fingers of one hand to tease Holmes' cleft and hole, still lubricated from their tryst in the bath. Holmes clutched the edge of the mattress and encouraged Watson along by tightening his legs and bringing him closer. Though it was slow at first, it quickly became hard and fast and utterly glorious and left them both sweaty and sticky afterward.

"I think we need another bath," Holmes said ruefully when he'd caught his breath. Watson laughed.

.

They occupied themselves in a similar fashion-with breaks to sleep and eat and argue about the pending case-until Holmes' client returned promptly two days later, bringing extra clothes as Holmes had requested. Watson was not pleased by the prospect of Holmes disguising himself and going out in his advanced condition, but Holmes insisted it would be a straightforward and uneventful information gathering exercise.

"I will follow you," Watson insisted as Holmes put some finishing touches to his hair and face after studying their client and then sending him downstairs to be entertained by Mrs. Hudson while he was out.

"That's truly not necessary."

"No, you don't understand. I will be following you whether you like it or not."

Holmes sighed and tipped the slightly too-small hat onto his head. "If you insist, but do try not to be as obvious about it as you usually are." He gave himself one last appraising look in the mirror. "Time to go, then."

It should have been the simplest thing in the world. All he needed to do was amble down the street toward his client's abode and take note of who followed him. But no one followed him in the first three blocks and he began to ponder where he had gone wrong. He had just crossed the street, his back to the traffic that passed behind him, when a carriage stopped, he was grabbed from both sides, a hood was pulled over his head, and he was bodily tossed into the carriage. He tried to get up, to struggle, and earned a thump to the head from a weighted cane for his trouble.

As he lost consciousness he dearly hoped Watson had witnessed the abduction and was following the cab.

.

When Holmes regained awareness he was bound and gagged. His arms were behind him, wrapped around a post of some kind, and handcuffed. He was kneeling but when he tried to sit, he couldn't bring his feet forward that far; he'd been put in leg irons with the chain behind the post and the chain was only long enough to kneel, squat, or stand. He had just managed to stand when he heard a door open behind him and footsteps descended down a set of stairs.

"Ah, you're awake," a thoroughly unpleasant voice said with a sneer. "I must admit, you're not the fish I thought I'd catch today, but I am quite pleased with the results."

The owner of the voice came into view and Holmes was pleased to see it was exactly whom he'd expected.

"You underestimated me, thought you could thwart me in your... condition," he said with a sneer. "But now I have Sherlock Holmes in my grasp. And his unborn child! How delightful. The possibilities are truly endless."

Holmes struggled against his bonds and tried to speak through the gag.

"Do not try to cross me, Holmes," he warned, drawing his gun. "One of the possibilities is to kill you both right here."

He pointed the revolver at Holmes and Holmes went very still. A grin spread across his face. "That's right. And don't think I won't." He cocked the gun and pressed it cruelly against Holmes' stomach, evidently relishing the way Holmes tried to edge away from the gun even though he had nowhere to go.

He pulled the gun back, uncocked it, and returned it to his pocket. "But that's only if you give me trouble. I would prefer to get something out of this. Perhaps demand a ransom from your dear doctor. Your brother would no doubt be able to help him gather sufficient funds."

Of all possible outcomes of a kidnapping, being held for ransom was certainly not the worst. Admittedly, such cases usually ended up with the kidnapped person dead or badly wounded and the kidnapper making off with the ransom, but he knew Watson would be coming for him and a ransom demand would allow him more time to do so.

His captor stood and regarded him silently for several minutes. Holmes returned his gaze unflinchingly even as he noted details about his surroundings (unused cellar, possibly below a warehouse of some kind, no remarkable smells aside from the mildew emanating from a leaky pipe in the corner, the pole behind him was a wooden support post that had already given him several splinters). Then the man grunted and took the lantern he'd brought with him, ascended the creaky wooden steps behind Holmes, slammed the heavy door shut behind him, and slid a bolt to secure it.

Holmes was left alone and in the dark.

His captor didn't return for quite some time. After Holmes had determined that he could not work his way free from either the handcuffs or the leg irons (his lock-picking kit was regrettably absent, as the trousers he wore were not his own) and the post was immovable, he leaned back against the post and spent the time thinking.

Part of his mind was engaged in observing noises from upstairs, but as those were few and far between (if his captor had confederates guarding his location, they did not cross the floor above his prison), his mind often strayed to Watson. It would be excusable if his thoughts were on what Watson was currently doing in his efforts to find him, but instead his thoughts were consumed with certain memories of activities with Watson.

Like spending hours stretched out on the floor while Watson massaged his growing abdomen, as if encouragement would make their child grow larger and faster.

Like kneeling at the head of the bed, hanging on to the headboard while Watson pounded into him from behind and splayed his hands over his rounded stomach to feel their child move.

Like being woken up by gentle lips pressed against his own, then those lips feeding him breakfast until the kissing became more important than the eating.

Holmes lost all track of time in the unrelenting darkness and occasionally surfaced from his reverie when the child within him kicked and fidgeted. Standing for so long made his back ache terribly, so he tried to shift position every so often, but without knowing the time he had no idea how long he'd been standing or squatting or kneeling at a stretch.

Also bothersome was the occasional tightening in his abdomen, his growing hunger and thirst, and the urgent need to relieve himself. The first had been an annoyance for weeks, so it was more easily ignored than the other two. The second was to be expected in his situation but he'd been so careful to maintain a consistent intake during his pregnancy that the deprivation was a rude shock. The third was something he could take care of but he disliked the idea of wetting himself.

He had just shifted into a kneeling position and was seriously considering letting his bladder empty (in this position he would at least avoid getting his socks and shoes wet) when the bolt on the door above was drawn back and the door itself was thrown wide open. A beam of light shone down the stairs and he had to close his eyes.

"Good morning!" his captor boomed, his heavy boots clomping noisily down the stairs. "My demands have been sent and I promised you would be in good condition if your dear doctor provides the funds I requested, so I brought a bit of refreshment for you."

The man's heavy footsteps came closer, then Holmes was deluged with water from a pail. Fighting instinct, he turned toward it, hoping to catch some in his mouth. The flow stopped as abruptly as it started, leaving him mostly drenched and still thirsty. He sucked what he could out of the gag, which helped a little.

His captor laughed cruelly and kicked at one of Holmes' feet. "They can't say I didn't try," he said mockingly, then noisily climbed back up the stairs, swinging the empty pail and whistling a little. The door slammed shut and the bolt slid home.

Holmes sighed, already starting to feel chilled in his wet clothes, and decided a little more liquid wouldn't hurt. He felt much better when he finished relieving himself. Not long afterward, he drifted into an exhausted sleep.

He passed in and out of consciousness as the hours dragged on. He couldn't be sure how long he had been there, but he guessed it had been at least one full day, possibly two. Though he lacked the usual external cues, he knew it had been long enough that he was beginning to feel somewhat light-headed from hunger and thirsty enough that he may not have minded another dousing.

On cue, his captor reappeared not long after that thought crossed his mind. "Why, hello!" he said jovially as he came down the creaking steps, swinging a lantern before him.

Holmes squinted and turned his head away when the man came around to face him and thrust the lantern into his face.

"You're looking well. Being kept in the dark suits you," he said with false sincerity. "I thought you'd like to know I have been corresponding with your doctor and your brother. They are most reluctant to meet my demands, you see, or you might have been freed by now. It is a shame I cannot use you in person to convince them . . . but I am not so foolish as to think I can transport you anywhere without you making an ill-advised escape attempt. You have a reputation, you know."

Holmes didn't answer, of course. He couldn't. But he glared daggers at the insufferable man and silently willed Watson to come soon and give the man a good thrashing.

The man smirked and patted Holmes' stomach as he turned to leave. Holmes made a growling noise in his throat, offended by the gesture, and felt a cramp coming on as if his body, too, was rejecting the touch. His captor merely laughed and slammed the door.

Holmes sighed heavily and slumped back against the pole. He tried yet again to free himself from his restraints, but even the gag remained stubbornly resistant to his efforts.

He may have dozed off for a while after that, but he was brought abruptly to full awareness by another of the "practice contractions", as Watson had taken to calling them. He frowned and shifted his weight, clenching his hands as he waited for it to cease. At length it did and his mind wandered once again.

Some hours must have passed before he realized that the practice contractions seemed to be coming more frequently than before. How long had that been the case? At least since the last time his captor paid a visit, but had it begun before that? He had no idea and he cursed his inattentiveness. Of course, he had the excuse that he did not have a timepiece at hand and his mind was addled with hunger and thirst, but that should be no excuse.

When the next cramp began, he decided to count the number of breaths between them. This occupied him for what must have been an hour, but he soon found that he could not both remember the previous numbers and count his breaths at the same time. Plus his breaths were not entirely regular, so the count varied even without the possibility that the time span was becoming shorter.

So he made himself as comfortable as he could, bracing his feet and leaning against the pole, and tried his best to rest between them.

Hours passed and the contractions became agonizing and far too frequent for comfort. He had to shift down onto his knees so he could hunch over with each new one, ignoring the pain in his shoulders and arms as he strained against the handcuffs. He panted and gasped through each new round of pain and wished desperately that Watson would come.

Instead, his kidnapper returned. The contractions were relentless, hardly allowing time to breathe, and so excruciating that he had to close his eyes and concentrate on each breath in and out. His preoccupation meant that his captor was able to creep up on him unnoticed.

"Well, well, what have we here?" the mocking voice said into his ear, and he couldn't hold back a gasp of surprise. It was quickly followed by an involuntary groan of pain.

His captor chuckled. "So the bitch is going to whelp. I do hope you can manage without your doctor."

Holmes couldn't spare the effort to glare at him, so he ignored him instead. He stiffened when the man reached behind his head; after a moment of fumbling, the gag loosened and was pulled free. It felt like it took some skin at the corners of his mouth with it. He tried to assess the damage with his tongue, but his tongue was dry and swollen and all he could determine was that his lips were cracked and possibly bleeding.

The man's hand grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. "I want to hear you moan," he hissed, and tugged on Holmes' hair until he yelped.

Holmes tried not to make a sound, but he was already sweating and shivering and he couldn't concentrate on anything else when the pain swept through him so he gave in, grunting and groaning aloud through the next contractions.

His captor watched him suffer without even trying to conceal his delight.

"Water?" Holmes gasped after a particularly lengthy contraction, hoping the man was entertained enough to consider the request.

He withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at it, then snapped it closed and returned it to his pocket. "So sorry, I haven't enough time if I'm going to meet your doctor on schedule."

Holmes felt confused and it must have shown on his face. His captor elaborated, "I have an appointment with Doctor Watson on the small subject of the money I requested for your safe return. I shall be sure to tell him that you are suffering quite pitifully, perhaps that will ensure his timely compliance."

When the man had gone and he was once again alone in the dark, Holmes cried out in helpless rage and pain. The baby was coming whether he liked it or not and all he could do was try to hold it off until Watson or someone retrieved him.

It wasn't much to hold on to, but at least he had a sliver of hope that Watson would come soon so long as the meeting went well.

Mercifully, the contractions let up somewhat not long after that and allowed him a few minutes to breathe and try to recover. When the next one started, he was immediately aware of a difference in how it felt and how he instinctively responded: this was the part when he should push the baby out.

He resisted the strong urge to push at first, reluctant to birth the child in this situation, but his body worked with the contractions despite his mental hesitation. He shifted into a squat and caught himself pushing with the contraction without being consciously aware of it. So he let go of his resistance and allowed things to happen as they would, though he did return to his knees in one last attempt to slow down the progress.

Though he finally felt the contractions were doing something (unlike earlier, when it seemed to be pain for no purpose), they were no less agonizing than before and he frequently cried out to relieve some of the tension.

Then one of his cries was answered by someone calling his name. And footsteps, blessed footsteps above him. He called out repeatedly until the feet found the door and he heard the bolt slide back. Along with a shaft of life came a most welcome voice. "Holmes?"

"Watson!" he said with relief, looking over his shoulder toward the door.

"Are you all right?" Watson asked worriedly as he carefully picked his way down the stairs.

"I've been worse, but Watson-" he was interrupted by another contraction and he lost all capability to speak while he pushed.

"Good heavens, Holmes, are you in labor?" Watson asked dumbfoundedly from where he was fumbling with Holmes' handcuffs.

When Holmes could speak, he said shortly. "Leave the cuffs, there's no time. Come here and do something about these trousers before they suffocate your child."

Watson quickly did as Holmes suggested, pushing the trousers down to Holmes' ankles as Holmes moved back into a squat. Watson lit his lantern and set it down close by. "Holmes," he said with some shock, "I can see the head."

"Good." Anything further he might have said was cut off by another contraction and he concentrated with all his might, reassured by Watson's warm hand on his knee.

"Holmes, stop, don't push for a minute," Watson said urgently.

"Oh, it burns," he said in response, tilting his head back against the pole and breathing deeply.

"The head is almost out," Watson said in awe. He turned and dug through his bag, pulling out a few small hand towels. "This is the one thing I didn't prepare for when I came," he said ruefully.

"We did expect to have a little more time," Holmes allowed, then gritted his teeth. "Can I-"

"Yes, Holmes, push! Just a little bit more," Watson coaxed.

He clenched his eyes, fisted his hands, and poured every ounce of effort he had into pushing their child out.

"I have him!" Watson said triumphantly, cradling a small, messy body in his hands. He wiped at the face with some gauze, then held the child up for Holmes to see.

"Him?" Holmes repeated numbly, feeling something like shock now that it was over. Well, over in the sense of birthing the child, though there was still pain rippling through his body.

"Yes, him. We have a son," Watson said proudly as the child squirmed and began to cry.

Holmes squinted at the baby. "Is he supposed to look like that? His head is a funny shape and he's all red and slimy."

"Yes, Holmes," Watson said with infinite patience. "This is how a newborn looks. Once he's washed and rests a bit, he'll look more like you think he should." He set the child in his lap and busied himself with pieces of string and a pair of shears.

Holmes closed his eyes and let his head droop. "Why is there still pain?" he murmured tiredly.

"You have to deliver the tissues that kept him alive. It shouldn't be much longer."

He opened his eyes again and watched as Watson removed his jacket and waistcoat and wrapped the baby in the waistcoat. The baby had stopped crying and looked drowsy.

"I'd have you hold him if your arms were free," Watson said apologetically. Instead, he set the bundle down on his folded jacket and focused his attention on Holmes. "Do you need anything while we wait?"

"Water," he replied hoarsely.

"I'm sorry, I should have thought of that much sooner." Watson drew a flask from his bag and carefully gave Holmes a few sips at a time until the flask was empty. After Watson put it away again, he pulled out the shears again and removed Holmes' drawers, wrapping something up in them and shoving them into his bag. "Now you're finished. If you'll kneel again, I can get your trousers back up."

Holmes slowly complied, weary enough that doing this seemed a monumental effort but aware enough to realize that reinforcements must surely be on their way and he did not wish to be half-naked when that occurred.

Sure enough, the sound of booted feet and loud voices came from overhead a few minutes later. The light from the doorway was abruptly reduced as several policemen peered into the cellar. "Doctor Watson, do you need any help?" Lestrade called down.

"We need water, and keys or lockpicks for these handcuffs and leg irons."

"I'll send someone down. Was there anyone on guard when you came?"

"No, there was no one."

Holmes heard all this as if from a distance, his weariness tugging at him relentlessly.

"Stay with me, Holmes," Watson murmured in his ear, rubbing his upper arms briskly.

"I'm tired," he mumbled, touching his forehead to Watson's shoulder.

"You just had a baby, Holmes, of course you're tired. But you'll sleep better at home."

Holmes grumbled a wordless protest as brisk footsteps came down the stairs and approached them. He heard the scrape of a lantern being set down, then the rattle of keys as the constable tried to find the right ones. Watson put another flask to his lips and he drank obediently.

The handcuffs came off first and Holmes flexed his hands and wrists before following Watson's guidance in carefully bringing his arms forward. They were stiff and felt weak, and he felt unsteady without being tethered to the support of the pole.

When the leg irons were taken away, Watson helped him stand slowly. He wavered somewhat as he found his balance but he was steady enough to remain upright while Watson handed his bag and lantern to the waiting constable and picked up the peacefully sleeping baby. Watson kept his other hand on Holmes' back as they slowly climbed the stairs and made their way through the empty, dilapidated house to the street where a carriage awaited, held by another constable. The rest of Lestrade's men had already cleared out.

The two remaining constables accompanied them in the carriage to Baker Street, but Holmes ignored them, first watching out the window to determine where he'd been held, then watching the baby sleeping in Watson's arms. The ride was long and the baby wailed fretfully by the time they arrived. Since Watson was absorbed in trying to hush the child, one of the constables accompanied Holmes up the stairs to offer assistance if he stumbled.

"I'll meet you in the bedroom," Watson said to Holmes as he took his bag from the constable and thanked him with a nod.

Holmes made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed before Watson came in.

"Can you take off your shirt?" Watson asked, cradling the squalling baby against his shoulder and patting his back.

Holmes' fingers frequently fumbled on the buttons, but he eventually managed to remove it.

"Now take him." Watson carefully set the baby in Holmes' arms and for the first time Holmes held his son.

His arms trembled at the slight weight. "I think I'm going to drop him," he said shakily.

Watson took the baby again and had Holmes lie on his side. He arranged it so Holmes' arm cradled the baby against Holmes' chest, the child's mouth near his nipple. The baby stopped mid-wail and began sucking eagerly.

"He was hungry," Holmes said, feeling something like surprise.

"Yes. Normally the child is allowed to nurse immediately after birth, but that wasn't possible in your case. Now, if you'll be all right for a moment, I'll go get some water to clean both of you up."

Holmes nodded slightly and Watson left again. Holmes gently touched the baby's cheek, his arm, his leg, taking stock of the child he had borne, his dark hair, his pale eyes.

Watson's careful washing took nearly as long as the feeding did, interrupted once by the need to help Holmes turn onto his other side so the baby could finish nursing. He also paused occasionally to give Holmes a drink of water.

Holmes thought their son looked more like he expected a baby to look when he was clean, and he certainly felt better when some of the sweat and grime was removed from his skin, though he was still exhausted. When the baby's eyes began to close and his suckling nearly ceased, Holmes thought sleeping seemed like a fine idea and was ready to follow suit.

Watson had other plans. "Let me take him so you can eat this toast Mrs. Hudson just brought up."

"Nanny was here?" Holmes was suddenly very aware that he was still naked from Watson's washing. "Did she see-"

"She didn't come any farther than the sitting room door," Watson assured him as he plucked the baby from Holmes' grasp and set about burping him.

Holmes slowly sat up, wincing at the numerous aches and pains that protested the movement.

"There's a cup of tea for you along with the toast," Watson said, gesturing toward the bedside table. "I'd like you to eat at least two pieces of toast. The tea should help with the pain."

Holmes nodded, reaching for the cup and a piece of toast. His stomach churned at the mere thought of eating anything but he knew Watson wouldn't let him rest until he tried to comply, so he carefully nibbled until the first piece was gone. His stomach didn't object to the intrusion like he'd expected so he ate the second piece and finished the tea.

While Holmes was eating, Watson tended the baby, tucking him into a diaper once he'd burped and spit up a little bit onto Watson's shoulder. When Holmes had finished, Watson handed him a pair of drawers and motioned for him to put them on. "You're going to continue bleeding for a while," he explained.

After pulling on the drawers and lying back down, Holmes' eyes were drawn to the baby in Watson's arms rather than falling closed as he would have expected. Watson carefully set the sleepy infant on the bed beside Holmes, then joined them, stretching out so he faced Holmes with the child between them.

Holmes touched the baby's hand with one finger and was pleased when his finger was gripped by the tiny fist. "We'll need to name him," he said drowsily.

"Did you have something in mind or will I have to find our list?"

"Nothing in mind . . . I don't know him well enough yet."

"Don't you? You carried him."

Holmes watched the baby's eyes close and his mouth open wide in a yawn. "That's different."

"Hm," Watson didn't sound convinced.

Sleep was almost within his grasp, but there was something he needed to say first. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have- I truly didn't expect things to happen as they did."

"I know," Watson assured him. "I hope this will make you more likely to listen to my objections in the future."

"I will certainly give them more weight," Holmes allowed, unwilling to capitulate entirely.

Watson reached over and stroked his cheek. "I suppose that is good enough for now. We can discuss it more when you start working again. That is, assuming you're going to uphold your promise to stop taking cases for a while now that the baby has been born."

It took a moment for Holmes' mind to process all of what Watson said. "Oh, yes, I will be taking something of a holiday. Perhaps we even ought to go on holiday, make it official. I'm sure my brother wouldn't mind us using his country home . . ."

"We can ask him later. You ought to be sleeping now."

Holmes nodded, his eyes finally closing, his thumb stroking the back of the small fist still holding his finger captive. Watson leaned over and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then carded his fingers through Holmes' hair as if petting him. Holmes hummed in appreciation and fell asleep thinking of names for their son.


End file.
